Beginnings: Garrison
by WildClover27
Summary: How did a clean-cut, twice decorated for bravery regular army officer learn about prisons? And whose brilliant idea was it to make up a team of four, make that five, convicts to operate behind enemy lines? Slightly out of order, this should have come before the other Beginnings stories.
1. Chapter 1

62 Beginnings: Garrison

Chapter 1

Private Craig Garrison, blond, handsome and intelligent, looked down at his hands clasp in his lap. The black and white striped cotton 'uniform' he wore matched the vertical bars on his cage in the Virginia stockade. He had come a long way in his almost ten years in the United States Army; from 2nd Lieutenant to Captain, to Major, to Private. All because he hadn't been able to control his temper.

It didn't matter the colonel he had hit was in the wrong. It didn't matter that the outfit hadn't been massacred by German forces on the arrogant whim of the senior officer. Craig had broken one of the Army's cardinal rules. And it didn't matter that same officer had been stripped of command and was already in prison for giving the same order to another group in another battle that had resulted in the deaths of every single soldier. Garrison had been tried and convicted before the colonel's trial and the verdict stood. Now Craig waited for the guards to come get him. Today was the day he was to be shipped to the military prison at Fort Leavenworth.

A few minutes later, the rattle of keys in the locked door just down the hall from him, alerted him. Three armed soldiers walked down and stopped in front of his cell. There was no last-minute reprieve. Garrison stood calmly with a stoic face as he was shackled and cuffed and led from the building to a waiting prison truck. A casual glance around told him General William Garrison had not come to see his son off. It did not surprise him.

GGG

Craig did not know what he had expected in a military prison, but it wasn't this. Apparently, the majority of military criminals had the same larcenous background as regular criminals. Facing a ten-year sentence and the loss of his military career, Garrison decided to fine tune the knowledge he had gained in his teen years from his Italian uncles who were more of a 'family' than just blood. It wasn't that he wanted to follow this way of life, but learning anything kept his mind active.

Most of what he learned was from listening and watching. His cell mate was a former bank robber from the west coast who had been drafted into the service. He had mistakenly thought security would be a little laxer on an army base than in a bank, so he had gone after the payroll in a colonel's office. With a gentle nudge and an expression of interest and admiration for bank robbers, Craig soon had the man talking about his past successful robberies and how he had accomplished them.

Another man in their cell block had tried to run a Black Market ring with supplies purloined from the base he was on. One of his partners had become greedy and been caught, spilling his guts to the tribunal board in a plea bargain that took down the rest of the team. The number one rule was never take on partners. When he learned Garrison knew something about confidence games, he happily took the young man under his wing and taught him more.

Inevitably, there were fights. Craig never started them, but if somebody brought trouble to him, he taught them not to try it a second time. He had boxed at West Point and learned street fighting from his Italian cousins. For the most part, he minded his own business and kept to himself, with the exception of a few of the inmates.

It had been a long two months when one day two guards came to his cell, shackled him and told him he was going to see the warden. A quick glance at his cellmate, Mel, told him the man was as confused as he was. Garrison had not been in a fight for the past two weeks and there was nothing else worth reporting.

The chains seemed to clink overly loud as he was escorted down the concrete walkway, past the double line of barred cells. There were cat calls and occasional words of encouragement from the inmates in the cells they passed. Jim, the confidence man, frowned when he passed. Well, whatever was going to happen, it would make a good story when he got back. What Craig didn't know was that he would not see these men again.

He was escorted into Warden Halleran's office. The mid-fifties, slightly graying weary-eyed warden looked up and eyed Craig with some vague curiosity.

"Release him," said the warden.

"Sir?" The guard was surprised. They never released a prisoner in the warden's office unless the convict was being freed.

"I said release him."

"Yes, Sir."

Craig held perfectly still, a closed expression on his face, as the guard removed the cuffs and shackles. His expression did not change as the man stepped back and looked askance at the warden. He was told he could leave.

Hallaran waited until the door closed behind the guard before leaning back in his chair with hands tented in front of him. "There are civies on the chair over there next to the bathroom." He nodded toward a chair by a door. "Go in and change. Take your time."

"Yes, Sir."

This didn't make sense either. If he was being transferred to another facility he would have stayed in his striped suit. As he headed for the clothes, the warden's next sentence made him barely hesitate.

"You have friends in high places . . . Lieutenant Garrison."

Craig did not look at him, but picked up the clothes and went into the bathroom, closing the door. He changed into the clothes and used the facilities with some small amount of enjoyment. It was the first privacy he had in two months.

Lieutenant? Obviously, he was being released. Dad? A little slow, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. He chewed on that with mixed feelings. Anything to get out of here, but the price was going to be accusations of nepotism for himself and the General. Besides, it put Craig into a position of owing his father. That was always an intolerable situation. With a flick of the handle, Craig watched the excrement of this place symbolically swirling down the drain. A tiny smile tweaked one corner of his mouth. Setting his features back into the closed look, he walked back into the office, setting the neatly folded 'uniform' on the chair and walked back to stand in front of the warden.

Hallaran was just finishing signing some papers and pushed them and the pen toward Garrison. Craig read and signed the papers.

"Your release," said the warden. "You will be transported to the air field and put on a plane to Virginia. Someone will be waiting for you there. I don't know why and I don't know if you know why. I don't have that kind of clearance. And - - - I don't want to know. This entire incarceration has been expunged from you record. It didn't happen. You have records stating you were in a base hospital recovering from injuries received in battle in North Africa." Hallaran stood up. "Morrison!" he called out. The door opened and the guard looked in. "Take this man to the air field." His attention went back to the clean-cut young man in front of him. "And Garrison, try to stay out of trouble."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," said Craig before following the guard into the hall.

Hallaran sat down at his desk. These were strange times and the military was doing strange things, like releasing a prisoner and erasing his past. He shook his head and went back to his business.

GGGGG

Craig stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the ground. He squinted around in the dimming light of evening and spotted the military car on the edge of the tarmac. It had a white star painted on the door and a tall, ram-rod straight man with what looked like grayish hair was standing beside the car, looking right at Garrison. He recognized the build and stance immediately. With a sigh of reluctance, Craig straightened his shoulders even more and walked down the steps, moving across the tarmac to meet his father, General William Garrison, of the War Department. Reaching the older man, Craig snapped a salute.

"Just get in the car," ordered Will, not returning the salute.

The corporal standing by the front fender moved quickly to open the passenger door for the two officers. The younger Garrison climbed in and slid across the seat to make room for his father. The General sat beside him, displeasure radiating off him in waves. Craig waited for the door to close.

"Your doings, Sir?" he asked with almost an accusatory manner.

"Partially." Will looked straight ahead. "We'll discuss this later."

The ride into Washington, D.C. seemed long in the uncomfortable silence in the car. The newly reinstated Lieutenant found they were winding though streets that became residential and tree lined. There were old brownstones along narrow avenues. Finally, the car double parked in front of an old red stone building with steps leading up to an ornate wooden door. It looked like the rest of the steps and doors lining the concrete sidewalk, made slightly uneven by the roots of trees that were probably the General's age. It was difficult to see much more in the darkness with no streetlights. Blackout rules were firmly in place. Not a bit of light shown from any of the doors or windows.

Will got out when the door was opened for him. Craig followed. Still nothing was said. They climbed the steps and waited while Will removed a set of keys from his right pants pocket and fitted one into the lock. With a click, the door opened and they entered a hall behind blackout curtains. The hall had that smell of old building and cigarette smoke. A well kept up hardwood floor led to a finely polished wooden staircase. Double doors were open on the left, leading to a drawing room. Craig couldn't call it a living room. It did not have a lived in feeling. The antique furniture and décor lent an air of show to the room. Will flicked an overhead light on before moving directly to the dry bar in the back corner.

"How do you take your bourbon?"

"Neat," replied the younger Garrison, looking around. Typical his father did not know how he drank his liquor.

The place was austere and definitely lacked the touch of his mother; but then Craig doubted his mother had ever been here. Mistresses yes, wife no. Glasses clinked and Craig stopped his perusing when Will turned and walked back to hand him a glass of clear brown liquor, neat and a double. The young Garrison took a healthy sip of his, suppressing the desire to toss the entire drink down his throat at once.

Will walked to an overstuffed chair and sank into it, placing his glass on an antique wooden side table. He picked up a pipe and a pouch of tobacco and began building a smoke. Craig sat down and watched him while taking small sips of the good grade bourbon. Satisfied, the General lit the pipe and took a soothing puff. The smell almost immediately reached Craig and brought back memories of his childhood. Everybody else in the rural area where they lived rolled their own cigarettes. The pipe had seemed exotic to the young boy; just as exotic as the man who only showed up a couple times a year and never stayed long. Just long enough for Josie Garrison to end up pregnant. It wasn't until Craig was in his teens that he realized his absent father only thought of his mother as a brood mare.

"Craig!" His father's voice was irritable.

"Yes, Sir." Craig must have missed the older man talking.

"You are wondering why I got you out of Leavenworth."

"I'm sure you have a very good reason . . . Sir." The faint touch of sarcasm earned him a glare.

Will continued. "I took that hare-brained scheme of yours to General Newman. Sam thought it was brilliant." His tone indicated he was not of the same opinion. "He in turn presented it to the higher ups. They think it's worth a try. And the only one they can think of to set it up is the man who came up with the idea."

Craig was surprised. He thought it was a good idea, but had doubted anyone else would. Now his father had his full attention. The bottom of the liquor glass rested, forgotten, on his thigh.

"Your record has been purged. There is nothing showing the altercation with Col. Brinson. Nothing about your incarceration. You are back as a lieutenant because those in special forces cannot have any higher rank, for their own safety." Will took a sip of bourbon. "Tomorrow we'll go to my office. Lt. Martin will take you to a meeting with the other generals. It's a work meeting. For the next couple weeks you'll fine tune your plan and in between sessions, you'll be taken to prisons to interview the type of men you seem to think are what you need for this group. Sam has been looking at prison records for the past two months and has narrowed it down to about twenty men who are presently incarcerated."

Craig nodded. He kept his face impassive while the rest of him wanted to give a shout. They had bought it and he was going to set it up. He'd make it work. Given the right men, he'd make it work.

Will Garrison finished his drink in silence. His eldest son had turned out to be a disappointment, just like the rest of his sons. He supposed he would have to call that adopted Indian boy his son too. That one had gone into the Air Force. Garrisons came from a long line of Army men. Their neighboring Gallaghers flew airplanes. Will was fully aware his oldest son could fly anything that had wings. Preston Gallagher had taught him. That was probably where Montgomery had learned too. The youngest boy, Kelly, was also a wild one. He had hopped a train at age twelve to go to Great Falls because he could. Then there were the girls. Craig's twin, Cynthia, was more of a man than his boys were. Teresa, the middle one, had adored her father until she had reached her early teens. Then her attitude had turned to disdain. She had disappeared one summer and gone barnstorming with the Gallagher brood. Another summer when he had come home for a short vacation, she had disappeared again only this time with a horse, pack horse and dog. She was gone for a month. Girl knew the trails, marked and unmarked through the National Park better than he knew the streets of DC. Her present living situation was another problem that would have to be taken care of eventually. Christine, the youngest girl, had been the only decent one of the children. That was until her middle sister had enticed her to New York and now she was living with the brother of the man Teresa was living with. Enough of the disappointments.

"I have work to do," Will said to his eldest 'disappointment.' "Your room is upstairs, first on the right. Breakfast is at six o'clock. There's a uniform in the armoire. We have to be at the War Department by oh-eight hundred. We leave here at oh-seven-fifteen sharp. See that you're ready."

"Yes, Sir," replied Craig with military formalness. Nothing had changed with the old man.

Craig waited until the General had left the room before tossing the remnants of his drink down his throat. He rose, placed the glass on the bar and walked out and up the carpeted staircase to find his room. It too was ornate. The big four-poster bed took up the majority of the room. He wandered over and pushed on the quilt-covered mattress. It gave like soft down. Better than the bunk he had in Leavenworth, but he would probably have trouble sleeping on it as soft as it was.

Wandering over to the armoire, Craig opened it to find a freshly pressed and creased uniform hanging from the rod. His lieutenant's bars were in place. At least they had made him a first lieutenant. It still wasn't enough to please his father. Nothing much did. His crossed rifles and parachute pins were also on his jacket with the 'lettuce' he had accumulated before his incarceration. What he didn't see were the two medals he had received for bravery in North Africa. Probably revoked. Somewhat satisfied, Craig closed the door.

Garrison walked back to the bed and pulled the covers back. Stripping down to his skivvies, he lay down, pulled the covers over himself and turned the bedside lamp off. Lying on his back on the soft mattress, he stared up in the dark at the ceiling. He did not know why he continued to try to be what his father wanted. Nothing he did was ever good enough and anything he tried was futile. The rest of the Garrison offspring had little use for the old man, so why couldn't he give it up? He had no answers to that. Tomorrow maybe he could begin work on his project. As much as he had been sure he would not sleep on the soft bed, he drifted off.

GGGGG

Bright and early the next morning, Gen. Garrison strode into his office, followed by his son. Lt. Martin sprang from his desk chair to attention. Will gave a haphazard salute back.

"Lt. Martin, this is my son, Lt. Craig Garrison."

Craig stepped forward and shook the outstretched hand of the medium build dark haired man who was probably close to his own age.

"He'll be working with myself and Gen. Newman until further notice. What do you have for me?"

Lt. Martin gathered up a stack of papers and handed them to the general. "You have a 1000 meeting with Gen. Olson, and at 1400 with Gen. Eisenhower and the African-European committee. And Gen. Newman is waiting in your office, Sir."

Will took the papers with a nod and went into his office, thumbing through the phone messages and letters, and not looking to see if his son was following. With a sigh, Craig stepped forward. He caught a glimpse of grin from Lt. Martin, who was well versed in the ways of the General.

"'Morning, Sam," said Will absently.

"'Morning, Will," replied the tall gray-haired man from a couch along the left wall, a stogie clamped in his teeth and two stars on his shoulders. The general eyed Craig up and down. "So is this your reprobate son?"

Craig had just snapped to attention. He took umbrage at that remark, but did not allow it to cross his face.

"Yup, that's him," said Will, dropping the papers on his desk and taking his seat. "Lt. Craig Garrison, General Sam Newman."

"Relax, Boy," said Newman.

Craig took that to mean 'at ease' and went into the wide–legged stance.

"Oh, sit down," grumbled the Major General. "It's too early in the morning for all that starch and circumstance."

Craig took a seat in a chair in front of his father's desk. This man was a bit of an enigma. Already he understood this wasn't your run-of-the-mill two-star general.

"So I finally get to meet the creator of this hare-brained idea of using convicts against Hitler."

It wasn't 'hare-brained' as far as Craig was concerned. He chose not to reply. This man outranked his father and that knowledge stilled his tongue. Brilliant blue eyes studied him. Just the barest hair this side of insubordination, blue-green hazel eyes studied the man back.

A big grin split around the stogie. "Thought for a minute that place you supposedly were _not_ in had taken all the wind out of your sails, Boy. You're going to need big ones to pull off this team you suggested. Looks like you might still have them." Gen. Newman took a puff on the cigar and changed tactics. "You're going to be working with me on this set up. I'm your link to the upper brass."

Which upper brass was that going to be, wondered Craig. He didn't think he would get much higher than a two-star if he was working with his father. Actually, he would be happy if his father wasn't involved. Craig allowed a small smile to cross his lips. "When can we get started?"

"Now's as good a time as any, Garrison." Gen. Newman rose and nodded toward the door. "Come with me. "

Craig stood and followed the man out of the office with nary a glance toward his father. He didn't see the old man shake his head. Convicts. Will wondered how low his son was going to sink. Still, it was a damn good idea; crazy, but a damn good idea. The boy had imagination anyway.

GGGGG

The two men went down the hall and turned right at another hall. They passed people of all ranks, men and women, before reaching an open door at the end of the hall on the left. Gen. Newman walked through the doorway into an anteroom, a bit smaller than Gen. Garrison's office. The other difference was a woman at the desk.

"Alice, this is Lt. Craig Garrison. He's your new CO," introduced Newman.

The young woman with the brown shoulder length nicely coiffed hair rose from her chair. "Welcome, Lieutenant."

"Alice," returned Garrison. "Nice to meet you."

"You too, Sir." She shifted her attention to the general. "Anything I can get you, Sam?"

Garrison was surprised at the familiarity. Obviously, besides the shirtwaist dress instead of a uniform, the woman was an independent contractor.

"Coffee," said Newman, tone not that of an order. He turned to Craig. "Coffee, Son?"

"Yes, Sir." He had a feeling he was going to need it.

"How do you take yours?" asked the girl pleasantly.

"Strong, black with two sugars," said Newman teasingly.

Alice shook her head. "I know how you take yours. Lieutenant?"

"Black, Ma'am."

The girl skirted around her desk and went out the door with a "two coffees coming right up."

Garrison shook his head. Alice reminded him of his middle sister, Terry. They could have been sisters in a previous life. Gen. Newman had continued on into what would be Garrison's office. Again, smaller than his father's, but it still had room for file cabinets, a desk, a small conference table, and a rather uncomfortable appearing couch along one wall. There were two padded chairs in front of the metal desk. The best part was a window behind the desk that overlooked grassland and a marshy area of the Potomac River.

"This is yours for now," said Newman. "When we're in here without other officers, you can call me Sam."

"Yes, Sir." A glance from the older man had Craig add, "Sam."

Newman went over to the table and stubbed the last of his cigar out in an ashtray before pulling out a chair and taking a seat. There were files and books and stacks of papers on the shiny wood table top. A can with an assortment of pens and pencils was between the general and the chair to his left.

"Have a seat," said Sam, nodding to the empty chair. "We might as well get started on this _creative_ , cockamamie plan of yours."

Craig removed his jacket and loosened his tie, tossing the jacket on the couch before sitting down. He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket and a book of matches; offering a cigarette to the general, who accepted it, before taking one for himself. Craig struck a match, lit Sam's cigarette and his own, and took a deep drag, aiming the smoke toward the ceiling.

"I have had Alice and some of the other non-coms do some research on the prisons in the United States. I have a list of prisoners who might fit the kind of men you are looking for."

Sam pulled one of the folders to him and removed a few papers from it, pushing them in front of Garrison. Craig scanned the top sheet. Names and locations were typed on it. He perused the rest of the sheets, noting the names were divided into groups by the 'occupation' of the convicts.

"Those stacks of folders contain dossiers on each of the men on that list. They are in order by their trade."

Garrison looked at the four stacks of files with something akin to hunger. It finally sunk in this was actually happening. They had listened to him and, from the sounds of it, bought it.

"We want you to narrow it down to three men in each trade. When you have that figured out, we'll send you to the prisons to interview the men. Once you have chosen your men, we'll send you to England. Allied Command in London will decide where they want your base to be located. You'll have a week to get the base set up before the men are brought over. "

Craig turned his head to look at the general. "How about training? I can't just take them in on the first mission without them being suitably trained."

"No," agreed Sam. "Between yourself and the army staff assigned to you, you will be able to teach them what they need to know and get them in shape."

Craig nodded. "Any idea what kind of mission it will be or where?"

Sam shook his head and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "That will depend on when you and your men are ready to go in." He pointed to some other files. There are maps and information on locations in England. You weren't stationed there so you'll need to familiarize yourself with England, France, Germany and the surrounding countries. You may be sent anywhere. How are your language skills?"

Craig gave a flight frown. "I'm fluent in German. Almost fluent in French. Speak Mexican pretty fluently. Some Russian and Italian."

"We'll get some refresher lessons set up for you."

They worked together through two hours, three cups of coffee and a half pack of cigarettes each. Needs for the group were anticipated and explored. Alice was quiet and efficient as she fetched files, coffee and typed up requisitions. At the end of two hours, Sam had to leave for the same meeting as Gen. Garrison. Craig was finally left alone with his files. The location of the base wasn't important as long as it was close to Allied Command. That would not be finalized until the team was set up.

Craig pulled the pile marked 'Confidence Man' to him. In his mind the confidence man would be his most important team member. He would be able to get them in and out of places. It had to be someone fluent in several European languages. Someone very adept at what he did. Garrison opened the first file. As he neared the bottom of the pile, he wasn't impressed. These were mostly small time hoods. With two files left, he wasn't sure he would find the right man. Maybe they could negotiate with England for someone familiar with Europe. The second to the last dossier wasn't as bad as the previous ones, but still not what he wanted. He wanted someone as skilled as Jim in Leavenworth, but Jim was too old and had not been overseas.

With an almost defeated sigh, Craig opened the last file. Victor Borghese, known as the _Actor_. Thirty-nine years old. An Italian and American citizen. In and out of jails and prisons since he was a teen. Most of the time, he had talked his way out by bribing guards. He had gotten past judges and juries with charm and lack of evidence; until the last incarceration. He had been caught _in_ _flagrante_ _delicto_ with his partner's wife. Everybody and their brother had come out of the woodwork saying the man had done the crimes they had been convicted of. Borghese knew his way around Europe and was multi-lingual. If that wasn't enough in itself, the psychologist report on the finest confidence man in Europe and America was revealing, and totally fabricated. Here was Garrison's confidence man; in Alcatraz. Apparently 21 miles of shark infested water between the island and San Francisco was the only deterrent to Borghese's escaping. The only questions were could Garrison keep him from escaping the group and could he maintain leadership over someone ten years his senior? The file was placed with the previous one, as the men he would interview.

Getting a pad of paper and pencil, Garrison began writing the questions he would ask in his interviews. What had the man done in the past? What would he do in a variety of situations? What more capabilities did he have? And, in the case of Borghese, had he really stolen the Monet from the Louvre in 1935; though he doubted he would get an answer.

Craig didn't realize how long he had been working until Alice slipped inside with a covered plate and set it beside him on the table.

"I hope you like roast beef," said the young woman.

"I grew up on a cattle ranch," grinned Garrison. "I love beef."

He lifted the cover off the plate to find a hot beef and cheese sandwich and potato chips. Apparently the Army officers ate well.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked, not assuming the meal was free.

Alice shook her head with a bounce of her hair. "Nothing. I set up a charge account for you."

"Thank you," said Craig. He looked questioningly at her. "Did you get something for yourself?"

She smiled. "I brought a sandwich from home. It's on my desk."

"Well, tomorrow get yourself some lunch here and put it on my bill."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," she smiled brightly. Glancing at the handwritten notes in front of the officer, she pointed to them. "Would you like me to type those up for you?"

Garrison picked them up and handed them to her. "I'll need twenty of the ones with the questions," he said with a slight hesitation.

"Not a problem, Sir," Alice said as she took the papers. "I'll type up the first set and then take it to be mimeographed."

Garrison nodded and the woman moved away. "Alice." When she stopped and looked back, he put on his most charming smile. "What do I have to do to get you to call me Craig, like you call Gen. Newman Sam?"

"It's nice to meet you, Craig," she said impishly. Then her tone turned stern. "Only in this office though."

"Of course." He grinned as she turned away and he watched her figure appreciatively as she walked out of the office.

He had already noted there was no wedding ring. However, if he was staying at his father's house, it would put a damper on things. He doubted the General would look kindly on his son dating his secretary. Craig's father did not seem to look kindly on any of his kids.

Enough of that. Garrison reached for the next stack of files; this time of safecrackers. He needed someone who could get into safes, vaults, and banks, among other things. This stack of dossiers was taller than the one of confidence men. The findings weren't much better. Most of the men were in prison more than they were out of it. One, a Charles Coletti, had the added grace of being an explosives expert. Eventually, he had a smaller stack of possibilities. Going through those a second time, he narrowed it down to three men. The prisons they were in were scattered across the country. He was going to be doing a lot of traveling.

Absently taking bites of sandwich in between sips of coffee from a cup that was kept constantly full by Alice who slipped in and out of the office silently, Craig pulled the next stack of dossiers to him. Second-story thieves and pickpockets. He needed someone adept at getting in and out and lifting things that needed to be heisted. There were several who might fit the bill. Only one had been to Europe. A Rodney Grainger had been born and raised in England and Ireland. He had been in and out of trouble since childhood. This man was currently in Sing-Sing. Next of kin was a mother in New York, also an English citizen. Grainger had found the time somewhere to get his U. S. citizenship. His reputation was having absolutely no scruples. This dossier went on the short list.

Next was the stack labeled hot car artist. There were several in that stack, but most were in jail for petty crimes. Still, there were three who could hotwire cars and had driven getaways. Two were versed in engine repair. That would come in handy. One was an American Indian. Craig wondered how that would look in Europe. Maybe they could pass him off as a Spaniard. This young man, Rainey Sands, had been in trouble from the time he was a child. He was adept with a knife to the point of murdering a prison guard in a jail break. That hadn't turned out well. Garrison didn't need a killer, he needed someone who could fix and drive cars. He started to put Sands' dossier on the discard pile, but his hand hesitated and he dropped it on the save pile. For the life of him, Craig did not know why.

Garrison had neatly pushed his files back and straightened, stretching his arms over his head to relieve tightened muscles in his upper back, when Gen. Newman walked in.

"How far did you get?" asked the General.

"I have them narrowed down to two or three each," replied Craig.

"Good," said Sam with a nod of his head. He smiled insincerely. "The big shots want to meet you. They want to hear more about this scheme of yours. They sent me to fetch you."

A two-star errand boy, thought Garrison. The twinkle in the blue eyes that watched him told him otherwise. Craig rose and straightened his clothes, retrieving his jacket from the couch where it still lay.


	2. Chapter 2

62\. Beginnings: Garrison

Chapter 2

Craig followed Sam out of the set of portable buildings that housed their offices, across a grassy space and into one of the few permanent buildings the War Department had access to on Fort McNair. This was occupied by the higher brass; two-, three- and four-star generals from a variety of service branches.

The two men walked down a tiled hall to a large conference room. Smoke was already swirling lazily in a fog up at the ceiling. Cigarettes, pipes and cigars were in abundance. Gen. Garrison was seated at the conference table, and by the files, papers and partially filled ashtray, had been there a while. There were two vacant seats beside him. Craig took the one to his father's left and Sam took the one next to Craig.

The talk in the room settled down as the officer in charge spoke up loudly. "I will assume this is Lt. Garrison?"

"Yes, Sir," replied Craig.

The 60ish-year-old man leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to the side, sagely studying the young officer. There were three stars visible on his epaulets. 'General McAllister' was on his name plate in front of him.

"Lieutenant," he started. "As you are aware by now, we have approved this project of yours. However, we would still like to hear from you what you think a team of convicts can hope to accomplish that regular army personnel cannot."

The door opened and Major General Eisenhower, the Assistant Chief of Staff of War Plans, walked in and silently took a seat. He said nothing; simply listened.

Craig looked around at the faces behind two and three stars watching him. He was calm as he began. "Sirs, these men have special talents which they have used illegally. It is a way of life for most of them. These talents can be taught, but it takes a special kind of person and a special mindset to be as adept as they are at what they do. A regular GI and even most special forces people find what they would be doing against the how they were taught society works. There would always be that niggling little voice in their heads making them hesitate. It might be just enough to get them killed or captured."

Having their attention, he tried to shove the concept home for them, enthusiasm now becoming evident in his voice. "You're familiar with the saying about the fox and the hen house. The Jerries are the hens. The hen house is Germany. We don't want to just watch the hen house; we want to get inside and wreak havoc. Who better to break into a hen house than four foxes? Four foxes with unique and very different talents."

That short explanation had the desired effect. Even his father seemed to grudgingly accept it.

Gen. McAllister continued. "How soon can you have this team in place?"

Craig took a breath. "I will be interviewing the men I have narrowed down on each category list. When I choose my final group, they will have to be trained and made fit for any expected or unexpected events they will encounter. I anticipate that will take at least a month and a half; sooner if possible."

Will Garrison sat back and silently observed his son. The younger Garrison fielded the questions with ease, becoming more animated as he went along, but dispersing that with logic and an individual attention to the questioner. Surprised, Will discovered his son was not only good, but damn good. Craig had a sharp mind, and was articulate. Not having much awe of rank didn't hurt things either. Now if he could just learn to keep his temper in check . . .

At one point Will glanced at Sam. The other man had never met Craig Garrison before now, but by following the young man's actions, both good and bad in the field, Sam saw the potential in the boy that his father was too close to see. Sam gave a small grin and a tiny nod.

Perhaps because it was such an unusual idea, the men in the conference room were full of questions. Craig easily answered their questions for another 45 minutes. On the whole, he was encouraged by the interest the generals showed.

It wasn't until they had returned to Gen. Garrison's house that night Will opened up on the subject. They had removed jackets and ties and opened collars to sit in the parlor with drinks and the newspapers when Will grudgingly spoke.

"I had my doubts about this from the start," he said, eyeing his son. "But now I have to admit, this crazy scheme of yours might work."

Craig watched warily. This was the first time in many years the old man had said anything close to approval.

Will continued, "You really think you can keep a close rein on four hoods without getting yourself killed?"

Craig took a sip of his drink and laid the copy of Stars and Stripes he was reading on his lap. "Dad, if I can find the right men for the jobs, they will be a little better than just thugs or hoods. Of course, either way, we won't know until I try."

"Ummm, well, try to stay alive. I'd have a hellova time explaining it to your mother." Will turned his attention back to the Washington Evening Star.

Craig wondered if his father would really care what his mother thought.

GGG

For the next three weeks, Craig worked on the OSS training ground to get his body in peak condition. He immediately began interviewing the men for the team, starting closest and working his way farther across the country, at the same time trying to save the ones he thought were the best for last. It didn't always work that way.

In Sing-Sing, he found Rodney Grainger to be a bright bouncy fellow. When the warden told him if he took Grainger he needed to have his head examined, Craig knew he had found his second-story man.

At Attica, he had his doubts about Rainey Sands. The man was very young, uncommunicative, and seemingly distrustful of everyone. He reminded Craig of his adopted Sioux brother, Monty . . . only worse. The Apache Indian had the right qualifications, but Garrison doubted he was a team player. He set that dossier aside and decided to continue the search for his wheelman and scout.

Safecrackers and bank robbers were a dime a dozen. It was when Garrison visited Leavenworth he found what he was looking for. Charles Coletti had an attitude, but he also had the reputation of being able to break into any safe and he knew demolitions. None of the others Craig had interviewed had that qualification.

The confidence men were all too cocky and had only been in the 'business' a short time. All were Americans and not fluent in anything except possibly border Mexican. With a mental crossing of his fingers, Craig paid a visit to the island prison of Alcatraz. Even in prison garb, Victor Borghese had an air of dignity and aristocracy that had been lacking in the others. His language skills were superb. He switched languages and accents during the interview with no hint of hesitation and strong evidence of playing an enjoyable game with the younger officer. As with the other two men he had chosen, he told "Actor" the army would inform him when a decision had been reached. The tall European appearing man took it in stride with a shrug and a smile.

Unfortunately, it didn't end there. Warden Crompton had a surprise up his sleeve. Apparently the man had been working around convicts too long and was developing some of their skills.

"Just a minute, Garrison," the big bellied man said with a smirk. "I have someone else for you to meet."

"I don't need to meet anyone else," said Craig, continuing to put his papers in his briefcase.

"You do if you want Borghese."

Craig looked at him. "All right, what's this about?"

"You want Victor Borghese, you take John Wheeler."

"Who is John Wheeler and why would I want him? What's his specialty?" asked Garrison, smelling the nasty odor of blackmail.

"He's a wheelman," replied Crompton with a barracuda smile.

"I have a wheelman lined up. I don't need another one," said Garrison briskly.

"I repeat," said Crompton, "if you want Borghese, and I think you want him bad, you take Wheeler."

"All right, let me see his papers," said Craig. "No guarantees."

Warden Crompton went to his door and told his male assistant to have Wheeler brought in. Apparently, he had been waiting in the hall. Garrison took one look and swore in his mind. The bald, heavy set thug eyed him as if he were something to eat.

Craig went through the motions of asking the man the questions he would ask any of the prospective wheelmen. The answers were delivered in a manner that told Garrison the man was a bully.

"So when are you gettin' me out of here?" asked the man as Garrison resumed putting his papers in his briefcase.

"I haven't made a decision yet," said Garrison. "We'll let you know."

"Take him back," ordered Crompton.

When the door closed behind the man, Craig said, "I don't need another wheelman and especially not that one."

"I don't care if you like him or not, Lieutenant. He's part of the deal. You take Borghese, you get Wheeler. That's all there is to it." Crompton seemed to be closer in mold to a thug than to a warden.

"I have a plane to catch," said Garrison formally. "You'll be notified of the decision."

"You'll take him," said Crompton with certainty.

Craig ignored him and left the office to be escorted back to the launch taking him to the mainland of San Francisco.

GGG

"It's got to be that one?" asked Gen. Newman with a sigh.

"Got to be Borghese," affirmed Craig.

Sam pulled a face. "And just why do they want you to take this other man?"

Craig shook his head. "Probably to get rid of the guy."

Sam leaned back in Garrison's desk chair and contemplated the younger man. "Could you use him as a 'wheelman'?"

"If absolutely necessary," replied Garrison distastefully. "Out of four, he'd be my sixth or seventh choice."

Gen. Newman sighed. "I'll see what we can do about this. I hate blackmail."

"In this case, so do I," said Craig.

"What do you have left to do?" asked Sam.

"I have three more men to interview," replied Craig. "And the General wants me for something."

Sam smiled and motioned the young officer to go. He watched the straight back walk out of the office. Gen. Garrison's preference in women was well known. The wedding ring he did not wear on his left hand said more about the state of his marriage than the absence would on other men. The formality between the older officer and his son wasn't lost on any of them either. There was no love lost between Will Garrison and any of the rest of his family.

GGG

"You want me to what?" demanded Craig of his father with no semblance of formality.

Will eyed his son sternly. "I want you to go to New York and get your sisters out of the mess they're in!"

"Dad, Terry's an adult. You can't order her around anymore," said Craig adamantly.

"Yes, she's supposed to be an adult. Christine is not of age."

Craig shook his head in frustration. "I might be able to get Chris to go home. Terry? Not a chance."

"Craig, you will go to New York, put Christine on a train for Montana and bring Terry here."

"This isn't military business," Craig threw back at him. "You can't just give me an order to do something like that."

"No?" asked Will with a nasty smile. "You can take it as an order, or I'll see to it the funding for your little project is scuttled."

Was everybody into blackmail now, wondered the younger Garrison. That his father would do exactly as he threatened was a surety. Much to his anger and disgust, Craig found himself on a train for Grand Central Station, in civilian clothes.

GGGGG

Four days later, two of the siblings stood side-by-side in front of Will Garrison's cluttered dark wood desk. The elder Garrison in white shirt, sleeves rolled up his gray-haired forearms, jacket hanging on the back of the chair, looked at his children in resignation.

"I take it he put up a fight. I hope he at least looks as bad as you, Craig." Will said tone showing his displeasure. He was aware of the glare of intense disgust in the green flashing eyes of his daughter, but she remained uncharacteristically silent.

"He's in the hospital," replied Craig without elaboration.

Will studied the black eye, bruises and abrasions on the face of his oldest son. That would postpone the boy's trip to England to begin setting up a secured base for this project of his. It would also postpone the interviews with the convicts who had not been seen yet. He did not need these delays, conveniently forgetting it was on his orders Craig had gotten into a fight with his daughter's now ex-lover.

As for his daughter, she had similar bruising on her face, one abrasion and no blackened eyes under the light auburn hair of her mother's side of the family. "And what happened to you? He hit you in the process?" He knew the girl was a tough scrapper, making this unusual.

"No," replied the girl curtly.

"Then who . . .?" The answer came unbidden to his mind. Will shut his eyes and shook his head.

"Craig . . ."

"He pulled his punches," said Terry. "I didn't." She did not give her father a chance to continue. "So why am I here? You sent Chris back to the ranch."

The General glared at her. "To keep an eye on you." He pulled a face of disgust. "If I had sent you back to the ranch, would you have stayed?" He did know his daughter.

"I would have been gone in a short minute," she admitted defiantly. "So how can I stay here? I'm not military. I'm not joining the WAACs or the WAVES, or any other branch of the service."

"No," replied Will. "But despite your previous 'employment' in a speakeasy, I will see you get enough clearance to work with me in the office."

"I repeat . . . why?"

"Because you have brains. You just don't use them," snarled the General. "And you know your brother. I want you as liaison between this office and his group in England."

Terry turned a quizzical look at Craig. "You have a group in England? The last I heard you were doing ten in Leavenworth. What _are_ you doing here?"

"You don't have clearance yet," said Craig stonily.

Will ignored that. "Your brother is like you. He's got brains, but he doesn't use them to their full capacity. And you both have tempers that need to be controlled."

"You're our father," said Terry snidely.

"Terry, shut up," said Craig quietly. This was bad enough as it was. It would do no good to bait their father.

Terry grimaced at him and continued. "Excuse me, Dad, but you're a Brig Gen. How can you have enough pull to bring me in here as a civilian?"

"I'm not. Someone higher up is and before you ask, you are not on a need to know basis. Either one of you." He eyed both of them. "You both need to be aware. This incident in North Africa never happened. Leavenworth never happened. If you are drawn into a discussion about it you can't get out of, say it was a smoke screen for something you can't discuss."

The siblings looked at each other with silent communication. Terry grinned cockily. "In other words, lie."

Craig's one clear blue-green hazel eye sparkled as he grudgingly shook his head. "Poetic license with the facts."

"Excuse me," she quipped sarcastically. "They teach you all that flowery language at the Point?"

"I was older than you when I went to Europe," Craig replied with a slight tinge of smugness.

Wondering why he had even bothered with his two children, the general sent them to his home until Craig was at least presentable. If things had been tense at the house before, it was as though the war had been brought to the brownstone. The odd thing was, Will's daughter made no move to escape or go back to her boyfriend.

GGG

After a week, Craig was back in his office with Gen. Newman. The Army had not been able to get around the blackmail by Warden Crompton. With resignation, Craig got his confidence man, with the thug thrown in. Now a week behind schedule, he did not go to Dallas or Denver to interview the remaining two candidates for wheelman. For whatever reason, that was not clear to him, he chose Rainey Sands. If the younger man did not work out, at least there was Wheeler. This was not going as planned. Craig had a feeling this was how the whole project would go.


	3. Chapter 3

62\. Beginnings: Garrison

Chapter 3

The staff car pulled to a stop in the cobbled courtyard, otherwise known as a car park. Craig Garrison had not been happy when he first learned his base was outside of London for more secrecy; outside of London by two hours. Two redeeming factors were there was a local branch of G-2 in the nearby village of Brandonshire, and he was twenty minutes away from the Archbury 8th Air Force base, and his neighbor and friend, Joe Gallagher. The world seemed to be getting smaller.

With a slight bit of caution, Craig opened the car door and stepped out. He stopped and stared at the building that was to be his home for the duration and six months. He wasn't quite sure what the style was. Gargoyles and Grecian statues. Arches and stucco. Diamond-paned arched windows. French, Spanish, Moroccan, Italian and English. It was a confused conglomeration.

The staff car had stopped behind two parked vehicles. One was an Army jeep. The other looked to be a 1938 black, four-door Packard. At least he didn't have to learn how to drive with the steering wheel on the wrong side; just remember to keep it in the correct lane of traffic.

Picking up his grip, Garrison started up the stone steps to see what the inside of this monstrosity looked like. An armed corporal opened the door for him. Inside, Craig paused and looked around, absently setting his bag on the floor beside him. Museum or mausoleum? He wasn't quite sure.

It was dark; wood paneled walls, portraits of sour visage people in period dress, mismatched furniture, worn Persian rugs . . . and a suit of armor? A wooden stairs was in front of him, leading up, with a ninety degree turn to the second floor. To the left of the stairs was a door; to what he didn't know. A large common room held a round wooden table with high- and low-backed chairs. A smallish fireplace graced the middle of the far wall. It was flanked by two wing-backed chairs with floor lamps, side tables and ottomans. A small chess table, complete with pieces and a straight chair, was next to the diamond-paned window on the front wall.

"Takes some getting used to, Sir." A sergeant appeared at his left elbow.

"So it would seem," replied Garrison

"Your office is that first door," said Sgt. Davidson. "Down that little hall," he gestured to a hall barely visible behind the right wing-back chair, "is a library/map room combination. Across from that is what's been turned into a supply room for office, household and the like." He gestured to his right. "Dining area, kitchen, butler's pantry, mudroom and door to a walled in garden area."

Garrison eyed a barred double door in the dining area wall. "Access to the off limits private quarters?"

"Yes, Sir. Upstairs is a single door access between the stairs and one of the bedrooms."

"What's the set up like up there?" asked Craig.

"I'll give you the ten cent tour, if you want, Lieutenant," offered Davidson.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

Davidson picked up Garrison's bag and led the way up the stairs. "There's a big room set up like this one, only larger. We were told you wanted to house the men together so there's five cots in it."

They reached the top of the stairs. Garrison paused and looked around at two dissecting halls. There were doors on both sides of both halls.

"What are all the doors to?" asked Garrison. They were all closed so he could not see in.

"There's the big room on the corner and seven bedrooms. There's a bathroom down the end of that hall." The sergeant pointed to the left. "People who owned this house were a little strange. Each bedroom has a small full bathroom." He led the way to the first bedroom on the right. "We figured you'd like to be close, but still have some privacy."

The room was not large, but it comfortably held a bed, an armoire, a small fireplace and a compact bathroom. It would be just fine. There was more of the dark wood paneling on the walls and a recessed diamond-paned window. Craig looked outside. The bedroom overlooked an overgrown, enclosed garden area with what appeared to be a gazebo hidden in weeds and vines.

He turned back and spotted his grip on the floor beside the armoire. There would be time to unpack his one remaining uniform and toiletry items later. The army had assured Garrison more uniforms would be provided for him.

Craig had brought no personal items. It was best to have nothing about family the convicts might get their hands on and use against him. All they would be told was he was a First Lieutenant and had spent some time in North Africa.

"Are the rest of the rooms set up like this?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir," replied Davidson. "While we were setting up the house and checking up on security, the men stayed here. We moved out yesterday. The beds have been stripped and the rooms are all empty. The air force base has a small barracks we are using now. We work in twelve hour shifts."

Garrison nodded. Curious to see more, he moved out into the hall and went across to the common room. The inside was set up much the same as the one downstairs, only completely enclosed, and minus the tin man. As he had been told, there were five cots scattered around the perimeter of the room. A foot locker was at the end of each. This room had the same dark paneling and ugly paintings as downstairs. Scattered about the room were a few eclectic statues; again the combination of British and Grecian influence.

A dart board graced one wall. Craig wandered over and pulled the drawer out below it. A full set of darts was inside. He could remove them, but decided the convicts had to feel as though some trust was being put in them; especially with the handcuff that dangled from each cot.

Moving around the room, Garrison opened one of the diamond-paned windows and inspected the bars which had been installed on the outside. He tested them and decided they were very secure. The cons would not be going out that way. There was a tree in fairly close proximity, but except for Grainger, the second-story man, he doubted any of the others could swing out that far if they did manage to get past the bars. A vine covered trellis bordered one side of one of the windows. It did not look sturdy enough for someone the size of the con man to climb down. But then, Borghese did not look like the type to crawl out of a window, except in the Don Juan fashion.

Craig looked at his watch. It was 1100 hours. He had time to break in his office before leaving for Brandonshire to meet a Major Percy Schaeffer of G-2. Going back downstairs, he allowed the sergeant to go on about his business and stepped into his office. It too had dark paneling, but it was made lighter by four windows behind the wooden desk. Only the ones on each end opened and were of the same diamond-pane as throughout the rest of the house. He walked over to his desk, but took a look out the window first. The angle of this room gave him a view of a wide expanse of manicured lawn, leading to some woods. He would survey the outside tomorrow.

Pulling out the tall backed wooden desk chair, Craig took a seat. There were two wooden straight chairs facing his desk. Behind these was a couch along the wall with a wooden coat tree between it and the door. A conference table was to his left, in front of a map of Europe. At least the ugly people did not grace the walls of this room. Behind him, above a file cabinet next to the windows, was the standard portrait of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. On the other side of the windows was a portrait of King George VI. The room was diplomatic if nothing else. An open door to his right revealed a closet sized bathroom.

The desk had a wheeled table to the right with a typewriter. There was nothing much to speak of atop the desk besides a blotter, an ashtray, and a leather cup with pens and pencils. The top middle desk drawer held more assorted accessories and a key. The key he decided went to the locked lower drawers on either side of him. Smaller top drawers held papers, and a loaded handgun. Convenient. Craig unlocked both bottom drawers. The left hand drawer held files. Thumbing through them, he found the dossiers on each of his convicts and one on himself that was surely the sanitized version. The right hand drawer was empty except for a small box. He'd have to do something about filling that drawer. Idly, Craig picked up the box and removed the lid. Nestled inside were his captain's bars and his oak leaves atop the two medals for bravery. Garrison smiled.

GGGGG

Craig took the Packard and left for Brandonshire forty minutes before his meeting with Major Schaeffer at G-2. He had been told he couldn't miss the building; it was right on the main street through the village. The pastoral setting between the base and Brandonshire seemed to belie the fact there was a war on. There were crops, but very few farm animals. At least not the eating kind. Draft horses were hitched to farm equipment. Garrison did not know if this was the way they still worked their fields or an attempt to save on petrol.

At a leisurely speed, it took him twenty minutes to reach the edge of the village. The road narrowed even more than it was on the way in and wound through the village as if laid out by a drunken person. The buildings were two and sometimes three stories tall, made of brick or whitewashed stone. It had a quaint feeling of another era, as though there should have been horses and wagons on dirt streets. Old-fashioned, though bulb-less, lamp posts graced the red brick sidewalks that also wound around planters of colorful flowers. It seemed the residents were not about to allow the war to dampen their spirits.

The three story building that housed G-2 was in the middle of town. It resembled a hotel and Craig wondered if it had been one before the war. He continued past and drove up and down the streets looking at shops, a couple churches, and buildings that might hold flats. Making a circle tour, he parked across the street from the military building in front of a typical pub with a wooden sign showing a grinning blue fox with the apt name of Blue Fox.

He got out and crossed the street after a car had passed. Stepping inside the door of the brick building, he was stopped by a guard. Presenting his papers from the inner pocket of his jacket, Craig waited until he had been cleared before asking directions to Major Schaeffer's office. He was instructed to go up a wide curved staircase of marble and dark wood to the second floor. Noting the marble on the main floor besides the stairs, he decided he was right. It had been a hotel in an earlier time. The elegance of the interior made him wonder what an obviously high class establishment was doing in a rural area.

Upstairs, he followed a hall, again with marble floor, past rooms that had once been hotel rooms and were now offices. Finding Major Percy Schaeffer's name on the fifth door on the left, he knocked and entered. The anteroom was empty except for a small, pretty, young woman with curly brown hair behind a desk, fingers flying with a staccato clacking of keys on a typewriter. She looked up with a smile.

"Are you Lieutenant Garrison?" she asked in a friendly manner.

"Yes, Ma'am," Craig replied.

"Please, have a seat. I'll let the Major know you are here," she said.

He sat on a straight chair while the woman went into a room behind her. She must be used to Yanks. She had called him by his American rank and not the expected British 'Leftenant.' In a few seconds, she returned and held the door open for him. Craig nodded as he moved past her into the office of the British Major. He stood at attention and saluted.

The Major looked at him over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. "Lieutenant Garrison. You may sit."

It was the superior tone of voice that grated on Garrison. The man went back to the papers he was working on, ignoring the young officer. Craig sat and said nothing, using the time to study the man. Thin, with a pointy nose and chin, he had sparse brown hair, with long strands attempting to cover a bald pate. Brown eyes squinted through the glasses that were perched halfway down his nose. Schaeffer looked to be in his early to mid 50s. Finally, the Major looked up and studied the man in the chair in front of his desk.

"Well, Garrison, it seems I have the misfortune of being your commanding officer. I must say, I do not appreciate the group you are bringing to England. We do not need criminals around here. Especially not American criminals. I furthermore do not approve of Allied Command giving the Newcastle estate to you and your . . . men. They should be housed in your stockade in London until they are needed."

Great, thought Craig, not replying. The men aren't even here yet and he was having to keep them out of jail.

"I trust they are not here yet?" said Schaeffer.

"No, sir," replied Craig. "The security of the house and estate is being put in place before their arrival."

Schaeffer gave him a disgusted look. "Your reports to Allied Command will go through me. I want you to report here weekly for progress reports. Have you been issued a mission yet?"

He didn't know? Amazing, thought Garrison

"No, Sir," said Garrison. "They have to be trained first."

"Well I hope they are trained quickly. The sooner you complete the mission, the sooner you will be leaving here."

If they lived through the mission, this pompous ass might find himself in for a surprise.

"I have no further need for your presence," continued Schaeffer. He looked back at his papers. "You are dismissed."

Craig stood, snapped off an unreturned salute, pivoted and walked out of the office. Welcome to England.

"Welcome to England, Lieutenant," smiled the girl at the outer desk.

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Craig with a genuine smile in response to the infectious one he was receiving.

"If you need anything, call," she said in a low voice. "I'll be happy to assist you if I can."

"Thank you . . ." Garrison left a pause.

"Meg," said the girl. "Meg Schaeffer."

Schaeffer? Craig glanced questioningly toward the Major's office.

A brighter smile of amusement crossed the girl's face. "My father."

Father. Well that left this one out. That man in the office would not allow an American, especially one with 'criminals,' near his daughter. Besides, though she was cute, he preferred his women older and more experienced.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Schaeffer," he smiled.

"We'll see you next week," said the girl, getting back into secretary mode. "I will call you with a day and time as soon as I know the Major's schedule."

Craig gave a nod and left the office. He made his way back to his car, but hesitated getting in. It wouldn't hurt to visit the neighborhood pub. Maybe he could find out where to buy a bottle of bourbon, if they even had any in this country.

He entered the pub and paused to let his eyes adjust. The place was empty except for a slim woman behind the bar putting up glasses. Garrison approached the long oak bar.

"Be right with you," said the girl in an American voice. The red, shoulder-length hair should have warned him, but it hadn't as he recognized the voice in surprise.

"Kit?" he asked.

The girl spun around, green eyes wide. "Craig? What on earth are you doing here?"

She hurried around the bar and threw her arms around his neck, giving him a big hug. He returned it with a laugh.

"I should be asking you that," said Garrison. They stepped apart and eyed each other. "I'm stationed here now."

Kit Gallagher, friend and neighbor from home, stared at him. "Where? The closest base is Archbury and you aren't Air Force."

"I really can't say," hedged Craig.

She threw her head back and laughed. "Let me guess. You're the Yank who is billeted in the Mansion."

The Mansion would be appropriate for the house. "How did you hear about that?"

"Hey, this place is about the same size as Midvale. Everybody knows what goes on around here." She went back behind the bar and reached up, taking a bottle of liquor from one of the glass shelves flanking the big mirror in the center of the wall. "Except nobody knows what's going on there. A lot of security."

"You don't have clearance,' said Craig. He steered away from that. "So what are you doing in England?"

Kit poured a strong bourbon for Craig and lifted an open bottle of Coca Cola from under the bar for herself. "Back home isn't the same. There's nobody except the women there. It was me and Ma at our place and Josie, Cinder and Kelly at yours. Kelly doesn't count as a man yet. Terry and Chris were gone besides the rest of you boys. We kept just enough animals to keep us in meat and a small garden for the rest of the food. Ma was spending most of her time with your mom. Pres was home for a little while to recuperate from the plane crash he was in. He took up with Cinder again. Then he was gone and she got grumpier than ever. I needed out, so I hopped a train and a boat and came over here closer to Joe. This place needed a barmaid so I took the job. The man who owned it died in North Africa and the widow didn't want it. She sold it to me cheap."

"You own this?" asked Craig in surprise.

Kit nodded. Both took a sip of their drinks.

"Have you seen Terry and Chris?" Kit asked.

Craig took another sip before answering stonily, "Yes. Chris is back at the ranch and Terry is in Washington with Dad."

Kit stared at him in shock. "Terry is in Washington with your old man? They don't get along at all. How'd that happen?"

"Long, bad story. I don't want to talk about it." He smiled and held up his shot glass. "Tell me, where can I get a bottle of this stuff for 'the Mansion'?"

"Well, if you don't tell anybody . . . I'll be right back."

She disappeared through some curtains into a backroom. It gave Garrison a chance to look around. Nothing the Gallaghers did surprised him anymore. The nice décor and display of liquor bottles filled with hard to come by booze did surprise him. Maybe Kit had learned the ropes of the Black Market bar business.

The flame-haired girl returned and plopped a bottle of Jim Beam in front of Garrison.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked.

"First one is on the house," she said. "After this, it's whatever the going price is. Totally under the table of course."

"Of course," he grinned. "Why is this place empty?"

Kit grinned. "Give it another hour," she said. "The locals start coming in around five-ish and the monster across the street changes shifts at six. I do okay. Americans have more money to spend than the Brits do. It makes things a little testy sometimes, but on the whole they get along . . . separately."

Garrison grinned. "I have to get back to the base, or Mansion as you call it. I'll be by now and then,"

"You better," laughed the girl.

Craig held the bottle up, "Thanks for the libation."

"And I thought it was bourbon," Kit joked back.

Chuckling, Garrison walked out to his car. He didn't see the curtain to the backroom part and a tall, blond-gray curly haired man emerge. Kit exchanged a worried look with the man.

"Of all the places to get stationed, he has to end up here," said the man with a shake of his head.

GGGGG

The next week was hectic as the soldiers and Garrison tried to get everything in place before the arrival of his men. Between meetings in London at Allied Command and with Maj. Schaeffer, an obstacle course was put in under Craig's watchful eyes. A parachute jump tower that had been started before his arrival was completed. Five frames were made to hold the targets for the men's introduction to guns and shooting.

The last morning saw supplies brought in. A kit was made for each of the men and placed in the footlocker at the end of each cot. Army issue clothing would be added later. Bedding was put on the beds. A last check of the common room that was to be their home for sharp objects turned up nothing except the darts for the dartboard. Craig stuck with his decision to allow those to stay. It would give the men a false sense they were being trusted to some extent. He wasn't about to trust any of them at all.

It was still light out, but fading into twilight when the prison van arrived. Lt. Garrison, in full uniform, including cap and Ike jacket, walked down the stone steps and waited to the side of the van when it stopped. The first two men were here now and judging from the commotion at the back of the van, anything that had resembled peace and quiet in the somewhat isolated estate was over.


End file.
